


Revolver Romance

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, Suicide, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am the person people forget about...maybe they’ll notice me, with my brains painted on the walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolver Romance

He’s got a gun in his mouth when you find him. He’s staring at his reflection in the mirror with this gun in his mouth and even though he hears you walk into the room he won’t meet your eyes.

“Put the gun away, Chester.” You’re not worried. You’ve seen him sitting at his writing desk with a razor blade poised over his wrist. You know this is way of crying out without saying anything.

He’s still staring at his reflection when he shakes his head and mumbles awkwardly around the barrel in his mouth “Di’ I’nt lie be’ore” He spits out quietly.

“Sorry I don’t speak idiot.” You say with a blank face.

He presses the gun into his cheek but never actually removes it. “This isn’t like before.” He tells you, a little clearer this time.

“Oh no?” You ask casually, you should be worried but he’s just watching himself in the mirror.

“I’d make a pretty suicide victim, don’t you think?” He asks around the gun pressed into his cheek. “My head would be pretty splattered on a wall.”

“Chester-” you begin to say, but you don’t know what it is you want to tell him. You take a cautious step forward and place a gentle hand on his hip.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror. Round and brown and deep. He looks sad, maybe this really isn’t like before.

“What’s in your head?” You ask him quietly, speaking softly but you don’t know why.

He removes the gun and you think he must have something important to say. “We live our lives on the edge of suicide.” He says and you really should have seen this little speech coming. “Every passing moment we could kill ourselves. That or suffer the shit we do. With our shit jobs and our seedy apartments.”

This could make for a very good monologue in one of those plays Chester loves so much, you think, the ones he can’t afford decent tickets too. Burger King isn’t exactly a generously paying job.

“I could’ve been like you. Sitting behind a desk, sipping lukewarm coffee and typing in endless figures. But I didn’t want to be a cog in a machine. You, Brad, are a cog.”

You know that, so you nod.

“But I ended up being a cog anyway – just lower down the scale. I am the person people forget about – I cook their food which they need to go about their daily routine, they need food so they can work; so they can go back to being a cog in a machine.” He says, the gun is hanging at his side. He sees your eyes on it and continues his soliloquy. “If I wasn’t there to feed you high-up cogs your junk food, because everyone likes to cut loose once in a while, then the whole machine would be fucked. People passing out everywhere because the refectory food at the office is over priced and under cooked and there’s no one anywhere else to serve them their lunch.”

You reach for the gun but he snatches his hand away from you. “You’re not making sense, Ches’.” He is, in a way, but you want to understand why he suddenly feels so useless. He used to think he was the King of the world. “How is killing yourself the answer?”

“One cog down, the machine will stutter. They’ll notice I’m gone. Maybe they’ll notice me, with my brains painted on the walls.”

This is all very dramatic for you and you want to cry because Jesus you love this man and he’s so far out of reach. He puts the gun back in his mouth and you want to scream at him no, Chester, please, but he’s already pulling the trigger.

Imagine it all in slow motion. Your heart is beating so hard in your rib cage and your stomach is churning.

A hollow click as the hammer knocks into an empty chamber. Everything is back in the right time zone as Chester collapses, sobbing on the floor.

Inside, you know the worst is yet to come.

***

You come home from work where your boss has been bitching at you all day and his assistant spilled coffee on your shirt to find Chester in the bath tub.

He’s dead. You’re so busy throwing up that you don’t cry. You pull him out of the bath, dry him and dress him and wrap his wounds and then call and ambulance. At the hospital, when your mom and dad are there and Chester’s mom and dad are there, that is when you cry.

When Chester’s parents ask if you were his friend, you cry harder. You don’t correct them, you just nod and cry and sniff.

Burger King will be happy, you suppose – they never liked the tattoos on his wrists.

Chester is gone and life isn’t worth it any more. But as far as your boyfriend’s parents are concerned, you’re just a friend and friends don’t need to organise the funeral. They don’t pick the burial place or what it says on the headstone. You are effectively erased from the picture, as if you were never part of his life.

If you could pick what went on the headstone, it’d be something like that cog theory Chester stuck by. He hated the idea of being part of a machine, but loved knowing he could sabotage it at any moment. He had definitely sabotaged it, you thought, because you couldn’t concentrate at work any more.

Your boss is hovering over you, breathing down your neck as you type. He says “Your writing is terrible.”

You rest your hands either side of the keyboard and sigh deeply. “It is?” You ask, as if you care.

He shakes his head. “You can do better than this, Bradford.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, returning you fingers to the home keys, preparing to continue where you left off.

“Why is everything you write so morbid, now? You turn every little article into an obituary. Why is that?” He asks and you spin around on your chair.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Family tension, for one. Chester is dead, for another.” You don’t pause even though he is now staring at you in horror, everyone knew how much you loved Chester and everyone thought it was sweet that you had been planning on asking him to marry you some day “Apart from that I’m fine.”

“Oh, Brad, I’m sorry.” He pauses for thought. “What happened?”

“Suicide.” You say casually, but trying not to cry. “Can I get back to work now?”

Your boss is shaking his head, no, no you can’t get back to work. He wants you to go home. He gives you four weeks mourning leave. You never even knew it existed.

At home, you lay on the couch watching crummy day time talk shows and shovelling Ben & Jerry's into your mouth with a plastic scoop because all the other cutlery is in the sink. It strikes you that you’ve only cried once since Chester’s death. You miss him and it hurts like a bitch, waking up each day and knowing he’s never coming back – but you’ll be damned if you’re going to cry whilst watching Jerry Springer. You’ll cry at his funeral, when it is expected of you. If you cry now, chances are you won’t be able to stop.

You’re in the same place two weeks later when someone lets themselves into your apartment. In your catatonic state you simply mutter something under your breath. The person must have a key, therefore they are most likely someone you know.

“You need to get up.” Says a gentle voice. It’s Rob. You haven’t seen Rob since before you walked in on Chester with the gun in his mouth. You liked Rob, you just liked Chester more

“No, I don’t.” You say stubbornly, reaching between the crap that’s began to build up on the coffee table for the remote. You change the channel, because MTV is shit.

“Yes.” Rob continues. “You do.”

You try moving your head to see around his legs which are now blocking your view of the TV. “Hey.” You protest weakly before giving up and closing your eyes. “No need to get up.”

“Miss Saigon is showing at the theatre this week.” He says. “They’re touring. British cast.”

“Chester always wanted to see Miss Saigon.” You say with ease. Then you realise; Chester had been saving up to get tickets for the show. But now he won’t ever get to see it. Because he’s gone.

Rob obviously knows that you’re going to cry because before a tear even leaves your eyes, you find yourself wrapped up in his arms and then you sob. You shoulders heave and your eyes ache and your chest burns and you cry.

“I take it you don’t want to go, then?” Rob mumbles gently into your hair and you sniff pathetically.

“No. I couldn’t. He wanted to see it, not me. I’d feel selfish.” You say, pulling back to wipe your puffy eyes. He probably thinks you’re an idiot, now that you’ve cried so much your tears have left a dark patch in the shape of your face on his shirt. You stare at your toes and listen to him breathe.

“You should do something.” He says.

You sit back on the couch, “What and why?”

“Go to work?”

“They gave me mourning leave.” You reply irritably. “Is there even such a thing as mourning leave?”

Rob shrugs, crossing his legs and sitting Indian-style on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. He looks like a little boy and you feel doubly stupid for weeping into his chest. “Probably.” He says, “You’re the journalist. Music colleges don’t really teach you that kind of thing.”

“How is college?” You ask.

“It’s okay. Can’t remember why I ever went. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. But I’ve realised I’m not good enough compared to half the people there.” He pauses. “Chester should have gone, not me. He was always into that kind of thing – you know, music and singing and everything.”

Rob was a class-A drummer with little, or no, self esteem. Chester always liked Rob. He always encouraged the kid when he felt nervous. More than once Chester had come to you, scared that he was living his dreams through Rob. You asked “What are your dreams, Ches’?” and he said “To stand in front of people I don’t know and have them want to know everything about me.”

That’s when Grey Daze happened. The band was a group of guys Chester met at some bar, he always claimed he couldn’t remember which one but you knew it was a gay bar. Over all, the guys were cool; that is, until they stole every single song Chester wrote. After playing a hand full of gigs, Grey Daze fell apart and so did Chester.

He had always worked in Burger Kind through the day, with Grey Daze being a kind of after school activity, if you will. This meant that he was always doing something, but without the band he just hung around after work. You’d leave in the morning and he’d be watching TV, you’d come home from work and he wouldn’t have moved. It was then that he started his false-alarm suicides.

You wonder, absently, if Chester felt then the way you feel now.

Rob is looking at you with sad brown eyes. He misses Chester too; he shouldn’t have to look after you like this.

“Go home, Rob.”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “No way, man, I’m not leaving you.”

“What about Mike?” You ask. Rob shrugs and averts his eyes. Mike is Rob’s doting boyfriend. Mike is also your jackass of a boss. He never really liked you.

“What happened, Robbie?” You ask him gently. He won’t meet your eyes. You slide off the couch and sit cross legged on the floor beside him.

“I think he’s found someone else.” He barely whispers. “He’s never come home…that is, he’s never at my home….or his own home. He comes to me, sometimes, but he seems different.”

You feel so selfish for not realising he was sad earlier. “Different?” You ask.

Rob nods, “It’s like he’s scared of getting caught.”

***

The next day is Tuesday. You get up, you shower, you dress and you head to work. Rob stayed for a long time last night. Together you tidied the house and made plans to sort through Chester’s things.

You’re not planning on doing any work today. You plan on speaking to Mike.

You walk in and nobody glances at you twice. If anyone asks, you’ll say you think you left your cell phone. Nobody needs to know that’s a lie. As you wander over to your desk you hear Mike’s voice call to you.

“Brad.” He says, “You needn’t be here for another fortnight.”

You feed him the cell-phone line. It’s hard not to take a swing at him when you notice the wedding band on his finger.

You ask him “How’s the wife.”

On impulse he replies “She’s great.” Then he catches himself and he says “You haven’t lost your cell phone have you?”

You shake your head and smirk. “Nope.” You start walking in the direction of the exit and you call over your shoulder. “I’ll tell Rob that you and your wife said ‘hi’.”

***

You stop at Rob’s apartment on the way home. You know that, by doing so, you will more than likely have to encounter Joe. Joe is an art student studying at the same college as Rob therefore they are roomies in a small, crappy apartment just off campus. You like Joe well enough, you just think he is an ass. He has the mental age of a five year old and has a split personality. It isn’t the mental disorder that irks you; really, it is more the fact that you wouldn’t find it strange to find him drawing on the walls in crayon.

You press the bell and you hear the thundering of feet coming to the door. Suddenly the door swings open and Joe’s blank face appears. “None today, thank you.” He announces suddenly, before slamming the door closed again.

You know better than to try again, so you pull out your cell phone and call Rob.

“Hey, Brad.”

“Let me in. Joe won’t.”

“Okay.”

This time, when the door swings open, all you see is Rob’s figure retreating down the hall towards the living room. You follow him, closing the door behind you. Entering the room you notice Joe lying on his stomach in the middle of the room, face smudged with charcoal and his hands flying deftly over a picture of a little girl, blending it in all the right placed. There was no denying the fact that Joe had talent. The little girl on the paper was standing alone, looking out of the picture timidly, in her hand was a battered old rag doll with only one eye. It was sad and you wondered how someone as upbeat and lively as Joe could draw something that tugged on your heart strings so much.

He doesn’t even look at you but mumbles “Hi.” And continues with his drawing.

Rob motions for you to sit down. You slump down on the couch and chew on your lip watching Joe draw. Rob glances between you and the TV which is blaring away in the background.

“What’s wrong?” He asks you gently.

“I went to work.” You say. “I saw Mike.”

Joe sucks in a breath, raising his eyebrows and whistling low. “I’ll leave you two to it.” He says, grabbing his sketch pad and charcoal and fleeing from the room.

“You did?” Rob asks in a quiet voice. He already half knows what you’re going to say, you can sense it. You slide closer to him and his head drops onto your shoulder, seeking comfort.

You whisper. “Do you really want to know?”

You feel him nod into your shoulder. “Yes.” Comes the muffled reply.

You blow out your cheeks and you feel him huddle closer to you. “He’s married, Rob. He has a wife.”

Joe is standing at the door way, you notice, watching as Rob sobs into your shoulder. You motion with your head for him to come in. He takes a tentative step into the room, scuffing his feet on the wooden floor. “He was a jackass anyways, Robbie. You’re better off without him.” He pauses for thought and glances at you “In fact, so is his wife.”

In a flash he is over by the computer and switching it on. Rob sits up, still leaning heavily against you he rubs his eyes and sighs sadly. “What are you doing?” He asked Joe, watching him log into the computer.

“I’m going to send an email.” Came the bitter reply. You’d never heard Joe sound like that before, he was usual a ball of joy.

“Remy, don’t do this.” Rob insists. Remy. Not Joe. That explains the tone of voice then.

Remy is Joe’s split personality. He is a cynical, sarcastic mother fucker and is definitely someone you would never even consider messing with.

He asks you “What’s Mikey-boy’s email address?”

“Bridging the gap at hotmail dot com.” You tell him and smirk as he turns back to the computer, typing faster than you’ve ever seen. Rob sits up and cradles his head in his hands. You sigh. “He deserves everything he gets, Rob.”

“I know.” He murmurs. “I know. It’s just….I don’t think I wanted to know. About Mike, that is. But I don’t think I could’ve survived thinking he was unfaithful.”

You already knew that. But he’s so fucking broken you think your words would hurt him more. Joe, or Remy or whatever, laughs slightly and you look up at him and your pretty sure the look on your face is a quizzical one rather than one of disgust.

“Let’s just say he won’t be using his computer any time soon.” The Korean smiles, looking proud of himself. “Well, his network to be more precise.” He adds, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Shit, dude, I have to use that network too.” You say and understand exactly why Joe, or Remy or whatever, raises an eyebrow and stares at you with blank eyes. It’s been a long time since you said anything with more passion than a wet rag. You shake your head and turn to Rob. He looks up at you and, you swear, if your heart wasn’t already broken it would break.

And then cause internal bleeding and you’d die.

Your eyes fill up. You’re not crying, again. Refuse to. You wet your lips and taste blood, perhaps you are crying again, you only chew your lip when you have something to hold back. Chester used to fiddle with the labret, that felt so fucking good when he gave you head, when he got nervous or had something important he didn’t want to say

You realise, just then, that you’re entire world has fallen apart and that Rob is the only one who can understand you.

Joe is on his way out of the room again, creeping on silent feet. You hear him whisper “No one is cured here without scars.” And you think of Chester, and his musicals and you think you might ask Rob to come see Miss Saigon with you some time.


End file.
